#TFTuesday: Caribou
#TFTuesday Caribou
Hunger bore through James like a drill through a plank. He'd done everything in his power as a human being to ignore it, to stave it off with larger doses of water, but he could no longer ignore the simple fact that he was starving. Living alone in a wood cabin out in the frozen tundra, having isolated himself from society as the world around him went insane, he had reached the end of his rope in terms of living comfortably. He knew it was a price he would have to pay sooner rather than later, but that didn't make the daggers gouging into his belly any less prevalent in his mind. Slinging his .270 Remington over his shoulder, the tall and burly man stood in the entry hall to his cabin, pulling his scarf up over his nose with one hand while his other ghosted to his side to twist off the fuel line to his kerosene lamp, standing mostly in darkness as a gloomy spotlight centered on his covered face filtered in from the glass above the door before him The room behind him was dark and cold, and the world outside was dark and cold. Nowhere to go now, no other options left. James knew he was in a bad way no matter what he did at this point--patting himself down to ensure he wasn't forgetting anything that could be crucial to his survival in a pinch and that he wasn't taking anything along that would only hinder his hunt, he took stock of his situation one final time. He knew next to nothing about what to do to procure the food he needed to survive; he'd bullshitted his way through living alone in the frozen north by leeching off the supplies this abandoned cabin had yielded, and the only things he knew about surviving off the land he'd picked from the pages of a hunting magazine. For all he knew, the rifle he was carrying would just as likely turn to dust as discharge a round when he pulled the trigger, having found the firearm buried within the bowels of the cabin's basement behind so much lumber and refuse. All the ammunition in the world he had for the gun was already loaded into the chamber, so it seemed no matter what decisions he made to survive at this point, he was being dealt a poor hand. More than enough motivation for him to gear up and strike out into the wild to hunt some food, even without the knowledge of how to do so. Reaching forward with a creak of fabric between his arm and torso, the doorknob--much like everything else in his life--proved to be cold and unwelcoming to his touch. Also like everything else in his life, James found he didn't care and jerked the knob roughly, the rough screech of wood on wood echoing through the narrow hall as the door swung open. White powder washed over his boots and coated the welcome mat beneath his feet. The only way out was up, and with great effort James hefted himself up onto the snowbank that barricaded his doorway and pulled the warped wooden door shut behind him. It was midday, but dark clouds blanketed the atmosphere so thickly that it might as well have been midnight, the only source of light leading his eyes seeming to rise from the glowing white snow that luckily (or unluckily) stretched on for miles. Trees lined the horizon in all directions, no discernable landmarks to catch his eye and set his course. Deciding that his thoughts and plans to return to this spot would only betray him, and so without bothering to mark his route for his hike back, James struck off aimlessly into the snowy wasteland with the resolve to not even attempt a return without game in tow. He knew all too well the likelihood of him actually making it back to the cabin, much less being able to successfully hunt and kill a creature big enough to feed him for at least a few weeks. All he was doing by embarking on this journey was staving off the inevitable, he knew, but the truth was that if he didn't at least try his luck out in the wilderness, he was dead already.
If time existed in this frozen desert, it was no friend to James. With no sun to lead him or mark the passsage of time, James had been reduced to practically crawling on all fours through the packed snow, the weight of his gear bringing him down nearly a foot into the white, every step he took as labourious and exhausting as dragging cinderblocks through tar, the solitary man not even knowing how long until night would descend upon him and claim his life. His mind a blank slate, his senses dulled and his logic fleeing, James made what could possibly have amounted to be the worst decision he'd made in his miserable life...and stopped. He drew himself up as tall as he could, letting his rifle sag against his side as his arms went limp, before he sank down slowly onto his rear in the snow. Like a makeshift chair, the white fluff welcomed him in its embrace, his legs curling up into view before him as he sighed away his worries in a puff of steam through his blue lips. Despite all odds, all the forces of nature conspiring against him, James had actually made the best decision of his life by taking his rest-stop, and the silver lining finally began to show through. His eyes snapped open wide as he took in the sight before him, his arm moving to slowly bring the discarded rifle back up around his midriff, the half-frozen man feeling fresh life course through his veins as he silently stared down the lone caribou trudging through the snow a few hundred yards directly ahead of him. His finger tensed around the trigger, the metal feeling almost like a needle against his wool-gloved flesh, and with the utmost patience James raised the rifle as slow as he could into a comfortable, if somewhat awkward firing stance. He sat motionless in the snow, his lower body a perfect counterweight for the gun's sway, arms wrapped in a deathgrip against the wooden firearm digging into his shouder. James rested his cheek reverently against the stock, lining his eye up with the viewfinder a few inches ahead of his face, and even through the mud-flecked scope he could still pick out the dark form of what would surely be his first meal in days very much within his reach. Hunger had warped his perception and stripped him of his self-control, so the notion that the sharp feeling of the cold metal against his finger might actually be a needle planted so strategically on the trigger he was currently stroking never once even occurred to James. He barely even allowed himself room to breathe and steady his aim--once the head of the unwitting animal was finally aligned in the lower quadrant of the scope, as he at least had the presence of mind to lead his target, James wasted no time in squeezing the trigger in a split second of tension, apprehension and satisfaction... ...Which quickly turned to pain and regret, as the needle jammed itself directly into the flesh of his finger without even allowing a shot to be fired, and James grunted in pained surprise before dropping the rifle into the snow as if he'd had an electric shock run through his arm. Flecks of red dotted the white fluff around the gun, and James cursed himself before drawing his finger up to his face as if to suck on it, but stopped himself as he was met with quite the disturbing sight. The finger had split the glove around it, having swollen considerably as if being targeted by a beesting, and the flesh had turned black and shiny. James knew it was a bad case of frostbite, and he would definitely lose that finger...but the longer he watched, the more unnerved he became, as the fabric of the glove only seemed to continue stretching and splitting further down the length of the finger. His skin seemed darker, rougher somehow, the curls of hair on his knuckles thickening and weaving themselves together. Something was terribly wrong here, the needle on the gun's trigger most definitely being infected with some strange bacteria that was causing his body to have an allergic reaction, or some flesh-eating parasite was digging into his hand. James pulled the glove away with his other hand; an act that required a lot more strength than he thought he would need, and within moments the reason why was obvious. His fingers had begun merging at their base, the hair of his knuckles having whitened and grown in so thick that it seemed he was wearing a fingerless, downy glove beneath the first. James tried to gasp, to say something or shout in protest, but the cold air and the rising wind had sapped the air from his lungs, and he was forced to watch in silent horror as the mutation continued. Spreading down to his wrist, the bones beneath his white-furred appendage snapped and rearranged, and as he twisted the warping hand around to view his palm, he was greeted instead with the sight of that shiny black shell spreading itself over the tips of his other fingers, which grew wide and edged, a three-fingered hand that looked less and less like a hand every moment he continued to stare. His index finger had merged with the middle, and his ring finger with the little, his thumb standing on it's own as barely more than a block of chitinous growth protruding from the side of his...well, his new hoof. There was no denying what it resembled now, and seeing a smaller black nub of that same chitin sprout opposite to his thumb where before there had been no finger at all finally shook James out of his fearful trance. Muscles tensed and bulked along his arm beneath his clothes, and the infected human used what little common sense he had left to rip away the zippers and buttons lining his chest, his weakened arms barely capable of withdrawing themselves from the many sleeves that adorned them, and not a moment too soon. The huge shank of thickly furred flesh that had replaced his formerly smooth arm swelled even further in the open air, his entire arm curling and jointed in an alien fashion, and James didn't need to test the limb in any way to know he'd never be using it to carry anything ever again. The truly terrifying changes had yet to make themselves visible, though, he knew--his blood pressure was rising, the already thickly layered clothing all over his body feeling much too tight, and James didn't give the blood-freezing air the respect of a single thought before casting aside the entirety of the jackets still draped over his back, his still gloved-hand doing it's best to unbutton his pants before similar growths took hold in his legs. What he didn't count on, however, was just how quickly the fingers of that hand would tear through the glove like paper as they too merged together, the hoof-tips forming before he could even make it down to the zippers. Panic was washing through him like icy water, flooding his every vein, and it seemed that the more excited and terrified he became the more the changes spread and accelerated. He could barely feel it due to the cold wind lashing his now scarf-less face, but his nose and lips had begun a similar fusion, the flesh darkening and bunching up until it grew leathery and soft, his nostrils turning to elongated slits and the shape of his mouth distending atop the mound of flesh that was tugging his cheekbones and chin forward. A strange itching had taken hold along his temples, and as he unconsciously moved to scratch at it even as he scanned over the miscellaneous patches of fur and reshaping bones all along his torso, his considerably longer ears flicked against his head and the bony nubs that were shoving themselves through his scalp beneath his wool cap. He held his lengthening head in his former hands, eyes squeezed shut in discomfort as his sinuses felt ready to burst, the man finally defeating his bout of silence with a pained bleat that signified a rearranged set of vocal chords. Soon enough that wool cap was rising of its own accord from his head, revealing the dark hair beneath it and the trunks of the twin growths that rose up like a tree growing in fast-motion film. The thick and heavy bones eventually split the cap into several tattered pieces along their branches and, starting with the base of those new antlers, a layer of velvety fuzz began racing up their length until they covered the entirety of those still-growing and branching ornaments. James couldn't even muster the strength to reach up far enough to try and touch those new antlers--the shifting muscle and bone structure of his torso wouldn't allow his disjointed forelegs to rise any further than his own face, which itself had taken on a more defined shape as his skull grew longer than it was wide and tufts of softer fur like a beard sprouted up beneath his long jawline. The half-man felt another, much more demanding pressure centered elswhere on his body, and as his spine straightened to a less flexible stance and his legs began to follow the same route of his arms within his pant-leggings, James had his attention forcibly drawn to the area directly between his thickening thighs. An unsightly bulge had appeared just beneath his waistline, the soft white trail of pubic fur racing down from his navel towards his pelvis only causing him more distress as the uncomfortable bulge in his pants was now growing itchy as well. He bucked his hips upward uselessly, knowing he could never undo his pants now with his new hooves, and was forced to endure the constricting pressure of his trapped genitals as they too reformed and grew to a size more appropriate for his new form. The twin testes, while having been quite average for a man his age before, now more closely resembled overly large potatoes packed within his briefs on either side of a clearly defined log that was rising up towards his lower belly. Instead of being greeted by the sight of an undue erection, however, James instead cast his widening gaze down on what resembled a thick sleeve of fur and flesh that had been sewn into his stomach, leading all the way up to where his navel had been only moments before before jutting outwards into a proud peak. His heart dropped into his stomach at the sight, horrific thoughts and images of what that new sheath might contain popping in and out his head faster than he could choose to ignore them, the man finally coming to the crushing realization of just how much of his humanity he'd lost. His discomfort would only be suffered through a moment longer, thankfully, as his hips finally began tearing down the considerable resistance his multiple elastic waistlines had been putting up against his massive bone structure. Unfortunately this came at a lofty price--his ability to sit comfortably. As if an invisible leash were tugging him backwards, his spine directed the upper half of his body towards the snow below, his legs rising up into the air. Without defined ankles to keep his boots in place, they simply remained buried in the snow, his wide hooves slipping free with only the remains of what used to be his stockings hanging from the cloven edges of said hooves. It took barely a moment for James to weigh the pros and cons of readjusting his posture to suit his increasingly quadrupedal stance before he was convinced by the overwhelming tightness that surrounded his groin to roll himself over in a flurry of snow, his forelegs stretching out before him as his embarrassingly large rump hefted itself into the air. This finally proved to be too much for his layered pants to handle, and the sound of the seams tearing was loud enough to hurt his much more sensitive ears, pinning them back against his head and exhibiting a new range of muscle control he was never able to fathom as a human. The pants fell away, slipping down the length of his bony hindlegs, revealing that white-furred rear end to the world and finally allowing his massively engorged, velvet-fuzzed balls to dangle freely between his incredibly large and muscular thighs. "Flanks" would be a more appropriate word for them at this point, he mused in his rising state of shame and sadness. James trembled all over, his forelegs wobbling as he tried to focus the substantial weight of his still-growing body forward onto them, lifting his heavy head free of the snow as his broad neck sagged further to match the countoured shape of his barreling chest. Muscle was packed almost achingly tight along his breast, leading down into a wide and round torso that--as the snow fell away from the dark, heavy pelt of fur draped over his back--grew warmer, comfortably so, as fat began packing itself between his organs and lining his already considerable bulk down his midriff. A more adequately restructured belly and chest allowed his considerable new bodyweight to be distributed evenly between both sets of legs, and with the shamefully exciting and pleasurable sensation of feeling a tufted scut-tail sprout and drape itself over the more private regions of his back-end, the bull caribou finally drew himself up to full stature, head twisted around to look himself over. James stood there silently, taking in all the details of his rich pelt and broad backside, as well as letting his head swing back and forth slowly with the encumbering weight of those huge antlers keeping him from looking left or right too quickly. Despite the still, frozen air surrounding him and the several feet of snow his hooves were sunken into, he felt almost no cold, an immense heart pumping vast volumes of blood through his fat-and-fur coated form. The caribou rotated himself after a few minutes of quiet confusion, hooves raising up out of the snow before descending back down and crunching the powder beneath them, and in a moment of expressly amplified shame he caught sight of his former prey watching him from exactly where it had stood when he had pulled the trigger. The air was completely still, the only sound in his ears coming from his own heaving chest, the hiss of his breath in his flaring nostrils. James looked on towards his fellow caribou, overcome with an unexplainable melancholy, the shame he felt at being stripped nude and losing his humanity taking on a much more profound weight in his chest. Casting aside his selfish desire for humane dignity, the caribou drew in a breath before bellowing out, the loud, dirgelike wail carrying itself through the empty space towards his new companion. After the echo of his newfound vocalization died away, the sound of reciprocity reached his ears, the other caribou responding to his bellow in kind. Compelled in a simplistic way he couldn't even begin to understand, James began walking, all four legs carrying him through the snow at a measured pace towards his new friend, leaving behind the shredded outfit and the forgotten rifle, a bead of crimson still glistening on its iron trigger.